


A Gentleman's Game

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Cross-Generation Relationship, Free Pass Fuck, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 18:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: James’ eyes locked on yours and you felt a spark of magic in that moment – the sort of spark that might have reignited the fire of rivalry that had frizzled out between you and his father so many years ago.  But this was not Harry.  And the fire that James ignited inside you felt very different.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this at least two years ago and posted the unfinished piece on Tumblr. Maybe I'll get around to finishing this.
> 
> As always, gratitude goes out to my bestie, Colorfulstabwound, whose characterization of both Draco and of James is flawless. It is that characterization upon which I base Draco and James in this story.

_"A Gentleman's Game"_

 

James Sirius Potter was nineteen when you first saw him – _really_ saw him for what he was.

 

Every time you had come into contact with the Potter brood, you had been too busy glaring daggers at the younger of the two boys that you somehow completely missed the real threat. Your precious son may have been head over heels for Albus, but James was the one you should have been worried about.

 

This became clear to you the night you were formally introduced.

 

Scorpius was home for Christmas holidays and his little boyfriend, who fancies himself a budding rock star, had a performance in London. Though your child was seventeen at the time, and not really a child anymore, you would not unleash him into the London night unsupervised. The city had a way of seducing the worst out of people – a fact you were well aware of, for you had succumb to London’s charms on many drunken occasions when you were younger.

 

It was here that you met James, at a dingy hole-in-the-wall night club with sticky floors and sticky chairs that you’d never dare sit in wearing even your most casual Paul Smith. It was the sort of gritty place that Theodore loved, and if you were not mistaken, you thought he might have taken you here nearly twenty years ago to see some indie rock band.

 

The whole Potter clan was in attendance that night. Harry was positively gushing, as if playing with a noisy band at a dirty London club was the best thing his youngest son could ever achieve. You had watched the churlish boy growing up along side yours from the age of eleven, and you didn’t doubt that this would be the height of his career. The Weaslette, as you still refer to Ginevera Potter in your head, was propping up the bar with your ex-wife. The two had become drinking buddies of sorts over the years, though Mrs. Potter had the sense to not get drunk in front of a room full of school-age teens, whereas Astoria didn’t let that fact stop her from getting tipsy. She had never set a good example in front of the children, and you hadn’t expected her to that night. The youngest of the Potter spawn, a spitting image of her mother, was sneaking adult drinks of her own, and you hadn’t bothered to alert her parents. It wasn’t your job to make up for their poor parenting.

 

“They’re quite good,” Theodore remarked after the band played a few raucous songs, which you found to be messy and dissonant. You shrugged noncommittally. “I’m going closer to the stage,” he said. He knew you well enough by now not to force you to follow him.

 

You stood near the back of the club with your arms crossed, frowning at how Scorpius was practically throwing himself at Albus from the foot of the stage like a star-struck groupie. Between the jaunty din of one song and the next, you found a young man standing beside you. He was older than the rest, and just as enthusiastic about the London debut of The White Lies as you were.

 

“I don’t see the appeal,” he said casually with a pint in his hand, “but I suppose Slytherins always support their own, no matter how much they suck.” He gestured to the room full of Scorpius’ classmates.

 

You quirked a pale brow and responded haughtily as you smoothed a hand over the lapel of your blazer. “Mind your manners, boy. You’re talking to a former Slytherin.”

 

He smiled a self-satisfied grin that sent an old, familiar jolt of loathing up your spine. “I know.” His irreverence towards his elders and his distaste for Slytherins gave away his identity even before he did. “James Potter.”

 

He offered his hand for you to shake and if you hadn’t grown up to be a better man, you would have refused it. It would’ve been painfully appropriate and deliciously satisfying, given your history with his father. But you are a gentleman above all else, and so you shook his hand, but not before you had given it a long, distasteful glance.

 

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy,” you replied coolly.

 

“I know,” he said once more, this time appraising you unabashedly with his blue eyes.

 

The first time you got a good look at him, it became apparent that James Potter had inherited whatever good genes had been lying dormant and unexpressed within his parents. His form was slender, but athletic – nothing like the beanpole his father had been as a teenager. He had been spared the ginger curse of the Weasleys, but bore just a faint dusting of freckles high on his cheeks, which was only noticeable when the bright lights from the stage bled to the back of the club. His hair was a reasonable shade of dark brown, unlike the forebodingly unnatural black hue that ran through his brother’s and his father’s unruly locks. If the Weasleys weren’t so adept at breeding, you would’ve thought that this one was adopted, because, as much as you hated to admit it, James was very attractive.

 

“Albie’s singing goes down a lot easier with a pint, I find. What do you drink?” he asked, eying you in a way that meant he was buying.

 

While Harry Potter was confident because he couldn’t afford not to be, you got the sense that James was confident because he knew he was golden. You could tell that he didn’t need to use his name to bolster his personality. He was precocious, cocky, and brash all on his own. This should have made you recoil, but there was something about him that made you want to stick around to see the spectacle that was James Potter in full swagger.

 

“Grey Goose on the rocks with a sliver of lemon,” you said without any hesitation in your smoothest challenging voice.

 

You may be a gentleman, but you are first and foremost an arsehole where Potters are concerned, with good reason. And so you immediately relocated when James turned away and headed for the bar, snickering to yourself all the way to a vinyl covered booth. Your quick cleansing charms didn’t make it any less sticky, but at least you were not standing around looking like an eager, dirty old man. You would never stoop so low as to wait for a scrappy young lad to bring you an expensive drink unless said scrappy young lad was your server and you were paying.

 

From your semi-hidden seat in the booth, you watched James return to the spot where he had left you, drinks in hand. Before you could even wipe the smug grin from your face, he turned his head and somehow spotted you from all the way across the room, past a gaggle of hyperactive teenagers, with just half of your head peeking out from behind the booth.

 

James’ eyes locked on yours and you felt a spark of magic in that moment – the sort of spark that might have reignited the fire of rivalry that had frizzled out between you and his father so many years ago. But this was not Harry. And the fire that James ignited inside you felt very different.

 

He walked towards you with his own self-confident grin, though it was more of a _strut_ than a walk.

 

“You’re not hiding from me - are you, Mr. Malfoy?” he drawled melodically as he set your drink in front of you. “Not that I’m above playing games,” he said airily, “since it _is_ my career, after all.”

 

You had to admire his persistence, or rather, his insistence. His sense of entitlement rivaled your own, which was quite a feat for a teenage boy. “A professional player,” you said, grinning astutely from behind your tumbler of top shelf vodka, “That’s no surprise. You strike me as a high-stakes gambler.”

 

“Can’t win big unless you go all in, yeah?” His smile was equally as knowing, and that sage expression made you wonder if James was not just precocious, but older than he appeared.

 

You sipped your drink slowly as you watched James quickly downing his pint like a seasoned pub-crawler. “Didn’t anybody ever teach you that it’s tacky to show all your cards from the start of the game? If you want to play like a high roller, you need to play like a gentleman. And a gentleman knows how to put on a proper poker face.”

 

“In my experience, you lose the game if you worry about acting like a gentleman. Playing big boy games requires one to have enormous balls.” He finished his drink and clanked the glass down on the table. “Let’s just say that I fill out my pants quite nicely.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slid out from the booth. “Enjoy your posh vodka. Owl me if you want to play.”

 

With a wink and a smile, James Potter was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

After that, you never thought about James again when you could help it. But sometimes, you just couldn’t help it. His picture was emblazoned on the cover of the Daily Prophet a few weeks after you’d seen him. He was wearing quidditch gear that fit him so well that it was obscene, perfectly accessorized with a cocky grin. The way he straddled his racing broom was much too suggestive for your liking, or rather, you liked it more than you should.

 

The headline touted, _Potter Playing With The Big Boys: James Sirius moves up from the reserves as Puddlemere United’s starting chaser._

 

You just had to laugh at the Prophet’s choice of words. James was probably doing a victory dance in his underwear with his self-proclaimed enormous balls hanging low. The article kissed his arse so hard that the author’s tongue was practically shoved into James’ most intimate depths. Not that you really wanted to think about James getting a good rim job. But your treacherous, filthy mind sometimes wandered off the path you wanted it to take.

 

“Merlin’s pants! When did little James Potter grow up and become fit as fuck?” Theodore remarked over your shoulder as he arrived at breakfast.

 

You kissed him on the cheek and quickly folded up the paper. “He’s not all that,” you said dismissively as you flippantly tossed the Prophet onto the table.

 

“Oh please,” Theodore scoffed with disbelief as he plopped into his usual chair and took up the coffee cup that you’d charmed to stay warm for him. “You’d be all over that like hot butter on toast if you had the chance.”

 

You never hide anything from Theodore, nor do you ever lie to him. You might save some truths for a later, more appropriate time to share them with him, but you don’t purposely keep secrets. Right then seemed like a good moment to tell Theodore about the time that a certain cocky-little-hot-shit chat you up and bought you a drink.

 

As you expected, Theodore found it terribly amusing. It had always tickled his ego every time a young fellow showed interest in you, for he knew that you were unquestionably his, no matter where you lay your head or with whom you lie.

 

Theodore snickered and gave your shoulder a playful shove. “Well, I’ll be damned. You _did_ have the chance. And you didn’t take it. This bloke has Free Pass Fuck written all over him. What’s wrong with you?”

 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “He’s nineteen or something. What’s wrong with _you_?”

 

Theodore shrugged and smirked at you knowingly, reminding you of the last time you redeemed your _Free Pass_ to stray from your monogamous relationship.  “Nineteen never stopped you before.”

 

You turned up your nose at him and replied, “Teddy Lupin was an exceptional exception. I don’t fancy making a habit of screwing teenagers. What sort of pervert do you take me for?”

 

Theodore snorted, “The sort of pervert that’s hot enough to attract sexy, young quidditch stars?”

 

You gestured dismissively. “James Potter only wants to play games, and I’ve no time for that sort of nonsense.”

 

 

Of course, your time is irrelevant to somebody like James Potter. Days later, he doesn’t ask you, so much as tell you that you are to attend a match he’s playing against Chudley Cannons next week. He sends you, not a pair, but one single ticket with a note.

 

 

_Mr Malfoy,_

_I didn’t get to be a high roller for Puddlemere by being a gentleman. I don’t know what sort of high stakes games you play, but this is my game. Watch me._

_\- James S. Potter_

You threw your head back and laughed before penning a return missive on your embossed stationery.

 

 

_James,_

_You must really think I’m daft if you expect me to believe that the only game you play is quidditch. I’m not a gentleman who can be trifled with. I will not be used as a pawn in a petty attempt at revenge._

_Let’s stop pretending that we don’t share a lover in common. The triumph of toying with an ex boyfriend’s one-night-stand is fleeting at best. By playing this game, you stand to win nothing more than the fuck of your life. If that sounds appealing to you, by all means, let’s play your game. But we play on my terms._

_With sincerest apathy,_

_Mr Malfoy_

 

 

 

His reply came sooner than you had expected.

 

 

_Mr Malfoy,_

_A man once told me that a gentleman doesn’t show all his cards from the start of the game. A gentleman puts on a proper poker face._

_You just showed me your entire hand._

_With sincerest doubt that you are sincerely indifferent,_

_James S. Potter_

You read the note, crumpled it up, and threw it in the fire, completely indignant. Not even your own teenage son could make you as flustered as this irreverent teenage boy had made you feel. You were going to attend the match anyway, despite what your reply letter had said. But his response effectively changed your mind – the ticket went into the fireplace as well.


	3. Chapter 3

Fate would have it that James Potter would wheedle his way back into your life after you’d written him off as an arrogant boy who enjoyed humiliating you – like father, like son.

 

Really, it was Scorpius’ fault if you had to blame somebody. You would be spending spring holidays at your vacation home in Corsica, and Scorpius begged to bring his boyfriend for the weekend – the lad couldn’t spend a single day detached from Albus and his complete dependence had you worrying about his future. Scorpius had pestered you so belligerently that you relented just to make him shut up. When he came back to you practically in tears after learning that Albus’ parents wouldn’t allow him to go away with Scorpius, you couldn’t stand to see your son so crushed. You knew he’d be a stick in the mud for the entire holiday without Albus and you really didn’t fancy spending quality time with a grumpy, brooding teenager.

 

So you fire called the Potters and assured them that Albus would be perfectly welcome and safe with you, Theodore, and Scorpius’ gran. The fact that this did not reassure Harry and Ginevera was quite insulting, and before you could give the Potters a piece of your mind, Albus interjected.

 

“Jamie’s home for the weekend. He can chaperone me.” He quickly added, with a manipulative smile and more politeness than you’d ever seen out of him, “That is, if you don’t mind an extra guest. I don’t mean to impose, Mr. Malfoy.”

 

You were about to say _I absolutely do mind_ , when Theodore jumped in and said, “I think that’s a great idea.”

 

It was, of course, the worst idea ever. The Potters seemed to agree, and you were glad you didn’t have to find a way of explaining your trepidation without revealing James’ little dalliance with you.

 

Ginevera and Harry were just as susceptible to their son’s whining as you were to yours, and so the horrible plan was eventually set in motion. James and Albus Potter would be spending two entire days and one miserably long night with your family in a cramped beach house.

 

Cramped is a relative term. The pastel colored house overlooking the Mediterranean was probably bigger than most people’s residences, but compared to Malfoy Manor, it was a cottage. All six of you would fit in the house’s ample rooms, if a bit too closely for your comfort. Anyway, you’d spend most of your time by the beach, and there you could put as much distance between you and James Potter as you needed.

 

 

The devious smirk that James gave you as you all _portkeyed_ off to the French isle made you regret ever agreeing to this ill-conceived idea.

 

From the start, it was clear that James was an unabashed flirt – age and gender were not a deterrent. He charmed your dear mother so thoroughly that you found her blushing like a young girl, clutching her pearls and giggling as they sipped mint sodas in your private cabana at the beachfront country club. He nearly charmed your boyfriend’s pants off while he had the gall to massage sun cream into Theodore’s back right in front of you. Even in mangled French, James charmed free drinks out of the smitten country club staff.

 

But towards you, James was conspicuously icy. You weren’t sure if he was being cautious or vindictive. You couldn’t decide which would have been worse – James chatting up everything with a pulse, or James having the audacity to flirt with you in front of your family.

 

After an alfresco dinner on the terrace, during which James was a surprisingly adept conversationalist, you retired to your rooms. You thought that putting Albus and James in a room together was the responsible thing to do, but you doubted that James would stop his younger brother from sneaking into Scorpius’ room.

 

You climbed into bed with Theodore, content that the first half of the weekend had gone off without a hitch – Albus and Scorpius had spent all day frolicking in the sea without incident, and James Potter managed to refrain from completely humiliating you or antagonizing your family. You pat yourself on the back for a job well done, not that you did anything but lounge in the cabana and drink frozen cocktails. After Theodore had made love to you, you fell asleep with a smile on your face, for the day was done and it had gone much better than you had anticipated.

 

But you weren’t out of the woods entirely. In the middle of the night, you were rudely awoken.

 

“Mr. Malfoy… Draco… Wake up.” James shook your shoulder gently, pulling you out of a lovely dream.

 

You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and narrowed them at him indignantly. “What are you doing in my room, James?”

 

“I’m not here for a late night social call. Believe me, if I was, I would be waking you up in a much more pleasant manner.” James smirked lasciviously for a moment, but then his smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Al and Scorpius are gone.”

 

“What?” you gasped as you shot up from your pillow, careful not to wake Theodore who was sleeping like the dead beside you. You were still naked when you slipped out of bed and retrieved your white dressing gown. Maybe James caught a glimpse of you in the dark, but you didn’t care at that moment. All that mattered to you was that Scorpius was missing.

 

You huffed down the corridor to check his room. James followed and said, “Already checked there. I woke up to go to the loo and Al wasn’t in his bed. I looked all over the house. They’re gone.”

 

“I knew this was a horrible idea,” you growled quietly through gritted teeth as you stormed out of the house. James trailed close behind you. “This is all your fault, Potter.” You ran down to the beach with your dressing gown flapping in the wind, completely disregarding the fact that you were probably flashing your arse at James every few seconds. Dread washed over you as morbid thoughts of the worst case scenario plagued your frantic mind.

 

You ran along the shore, half expecting to find your son washed up and lifeless on the beach. And even though you anticipated this gruesome outcome, you were not prepared for the shock of seeing two figures on the sand, just below the dunes. You ran towards the figures, impending tears stinging your eyes and fear clenching your heart. _Oh gods, please… please…_ You wanted to find your son, but at the same time, you didn’t want the prone figure on the beach to be Scorpius’ body.

 

When you reached them, you heaved the hugest sigh of relief. Scorpius and Albus were asleep on a blanket, nestled in each other’s arms, completely dry in their pajamas, with a pair of omniocculars discarded on the sand. In them you saw yourself and Theodore when you were young, and you couldn’t fault the boys for stargazing. You actually smiled wistfully.

 

“Should we wake them?” James whispered.

 

You thought about it for a moment then shrugged. “No. Leave them. They’ll get cold and come back soon enough.”

 

“Fancy a walk on the beach?” James asked with a smile that was too coy to be genuine.

 

Then it dawned on you. “You little shit,” you hissed softly. “You knew they were here the whole time, didn’t you.”

 

He smirked, and you could’ve punched him in his smug, gorgeous face. “I had to get you alone somehow.”

 

You flashed a withering look at him before you started walking away. But instead of climbing the dunes to return to the house, you followed the shoreline and relished the cool, wet sand beneath your feet. James didn’t follow you. You stopped and called out over your shoulder, “Are you coming, or not?”

 

James smiled and jogged to catch up with you. As he walked along side you, you noticed for the first time that night what he was wearing – or rather, what he was not wearing. He had on nothing but a pair of athletic shorts. And it became clear that the photograph in The Daily Prophet had not been enhanced to make him appear more physically fit. Not that you were really looking. At least, you were trying hard not to look.

 

It had been nice to stroll with the ocean whispering in your ear, but James broke the silence, which you were quite enjoying. “You’re wrong, you know,” he said, self-assuredly.

 

You casually slipped your hands into the pockets of your dressing gown and raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

 

“The game. It’s not what you think it is. Vindictive games are for children,” he said, and then added with a bored sigh, “I’ve played those games before and they’re not that fun.”

 

“So what _are_ you playing?” you asked, not annoyed, but curious. “I’ve showed you my hand. Don’t you think it’s time you put your cards on the table?”

 

He stopped walking, took a step in front of you to face you, and curled his fingers into the front of your dressing gown. When he looked at you, you saw through his arrogance and his smugness. Glinting in the light of the moon, you saw something in James’ eyes that looked broken – something irreparable that had cracked a long time ago. He did his best to hide it from the world, but you had been starring at a pair of cerulean eyes that hid a damaged soul for over thirty years, and you knew how to recognize it. You wondered who had broken him – if it had been Teddy Lupin.

 

James pulled you towards him, and with his lips hovering just a breath away from yours, he whispered, “Sex is not a gentleman’s game. But if you must know, I’ve got all aces.”

 

And then James kissed you.

 

He kissed you with forceful entitlement as his mouth moved insistently and inelegantly over yours – exactly how you had expected James Potter to kiss. You didn’t have the sense to push him away. With one kiss, he had awoken something reckless in you that you hadn’t felt in years, and you had almost forgotten how fucking good it felt to be irresponsible.

 

He reached down for the sash that held your dressing gown closed, but you were quick to snatch up his wrist in your firm grasp. Your silver gaze held him as tightly as your fingers while you breathlessly murmured, “Your game, my terms.”

 

If James Potter thought he could manhandle you like his latest toy that he’d soon discard, he was sorely mistaken. You made it clear that, despite the fact that he pursued you and caught you, you were in control. Like a gesture in a dance, you slowly guided his hand away from the closure of your robe and let it rest on the side of your neck, where your fingers laced with his. With your hand over his, you navigated his touch at a lazy pace that you knew would drive him mad. You watched his pulse flutter at the side of his throat as you let his fingertips graze over your collarbone and down the center of your chest where the panels of the dressing gown divided.

 

You slipped his hand beneath the rich, silky fabric as you smoothed his palm over the firm planes of your abdomen. He swallowed hard and glanced down with anticipation, his lips wet and parted, as you slipped a free finger into the knot that kept your robe closed, and loosened it. When he saw you, gloriously erect, James keened quietly like a starving creature.

 

But you didn’t let him touch what he wanted most. You held his hand still. Your lips twisted into a cruel smirk, from which James guilefully stole a kiss. His other hand caught the back of your neck, keeping your mouth firmly on his.  He kissed you like you owed him this, and you didn’t entirely mind the presumptuousness of the way his lips claimed yours.

 

His mouth opened on a quiet moan, and into it, you whispered, “Show me what you can do.”

 

Your fingers tangled in the hair at the top of his head and his knees dutifully dropped to the sand before you had to drop any hints. His response seemed almost automatic, and you knew that he must have swallowed quite a lot of cock in his short life to be so quick to get down on his knees for you.

 

You found it rather amusing that James Potter might have been more of a slut than even Theodore at that age, which was really saying something about the extent of his promiscuity. Not that it surprised you. It required a lot more than enormous balls to take on Draco Malfoy and succeed at getting your proverbial pants off.

 

There was nothing elegant about the way James took you. But that’s the way you wanted him. You wanted him dirty and careless. You wanted the mess you made together to be wet and vulgar. You wanted him anxious enough to choke and sputter in his haste to get your cock to the back of his throat.

 

When James pushed down the front of his shorts, it became apparent that the lucky bastard wasn’t lying about having _all aces_. He could wreck a man with little effort, and you were still undecided about whether or not you’d let him. You knew that Theodore wouldn’t be pleased if he found that James Potter had ruined you – for you are the person that had always fit Theodore like a puzzle piece.

 

But you’d threatened to give James the fucking of his life. Following through was imperative to keeping whatever reputation you had, which had drawn James to you in the first place. Not that you needed to be forced. If you were honest with yourself, you’d admit that James had you hooked from that first wink in the dive bar. Of course, you’d never tell him that.

 

There were other things you could’ve told him with colorful ardor, if maintaining poise were not so important to you. _Gods, your mouth is fucking exquisite. Fucking hell, your body is perfect. Fuck, that feels so good. Goddamn, I need to fuck you, James, right fucking now._ These are the words he would have heard, but all you gave him was a low, closed-lipped sound of amusement as you clasped a fist full of wind whipped hair.

 

Maybe it came out sounding more like a laugh than anything else, for James pulled his mouth off with a wet sound and glanced up with a quirked brow. “Is there a problem?” he challenged you more than asked, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

“None at all. Carry on,” you replied. It must have come out sounding sarcastic, which was the default inflection of your voice and not your intention, because he twisted his mouth, unconvinced.

 

“Aren’t you wondering _why_ I’m doing this?” he asked. From the way he tilted his head and looked up at you expectantly, you knew he had been dying for you to ask. And maybe he had this whole exchange rehearsed in his head, with a smart response eagerly resting at the tip of his tongue, ready to drop.

 

You shrugged, and just as flippantly responded, “No.”

 

It was your suspicion that he hadn’t expected this answer from you. He seemed a little flustered when he said, “Well, I’ll tell you why,” disregarding the fact that you clearly didn’t care. “And it’s not what you think at all.” It was becoming more obvious that James had indeed been rehearsing this in his head, maybe since that night in London, most likely accompanied by lurid fantasies.

 

So you took the bait because you hate it when people presume to know what you think, particularly when it’s an arrogant Potter. You heaved a bored, impatient sigh with an accompanying eye-roll and muttered, more to yourself than to James, “Oh, do tell us, what is Draco Malfoy thinking?” Meanwhile, you were beginning to question why _you_ were doing this.

 

James’ fingers were still curled around the base of your cock, his lips still brushing the wet, sensitive tip, the heat of his sibilant whisper making you ache to be inside his mouth again. “I never intended for this to be a game. _You’re_ the one who turned it into one – that night at the club.”

 

He began to slide his fingers along your spit-slicked length, smirking against the swollen head. “But I was ready to just grab you by the collar, drag you to the loo, and let you have your way with me. You’ve been searching for some sort of surreptitious motive. But I haven’t got one.”

 

Then he paused for effect, put on his most delectable smug grin, and said, “I just want you to fuck me – the way you’ve wanted to since that night. And I know that _everyone_ wants to fuck Draco Malfoy, but not just anyone _can_. I, however, am not just _anyone_.”

 

With those last words, James pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your erection, and from the look in his eyes, you could tell that the entitled little shit was probably so proud of himself when he got to deliver that last line.

 

You, of course, were not impressed. You didn’t need an arrogant nineteen-year-old to tell you that you were the crowning achievement of trophy fucks. You had left your thirties behind a couple of years ago, but you were still the most fuckable bachelor in all of wizarding England, and probably in many muggle circles as well, except you were infamously hard to crack.

 

People liked to spread rumors and tout themselves as one of your few conquests just to earn themselves notoriety. You didn’t mind – it kept you relevant in the gossip columns and ensured Theodore would never take you for granted. But you and Theodore were secure in the knowledge that you only ever belonged to him, and you have only ever strayed once. You never even screwed your ex-wife, thanks to advanced techniques in reproductive medicine.

 

The irony of it all was that James Potter, who thought he was really fucking special, had no idea just how exceptional he was in this regard. It made you want to laugh. But you knew James wouldn’t take it well if you chuckled at his rousing monologue, and in the end you still wanted a piece of him.

 

So instead, you snorted with amusement and tenderly took his chin in your hand. “You’re so fucking cute,” you mused fondly, if a bit condescendingly.

 

“So I’ve been told,” he purred, nuzzling your hard length with his cheek before reclaiming it with his hot mouth, inspiring the need to stifle a moan with your lip caught between your teeth.


End file.
